


There's Nothing About Margo

by Timemidae



Series: Episode Related Mini-fics [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Episode Related: The Deadly Quest Affair, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:24:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timemidae/pseuds/Timemidae
Summary: Who has Illya so aggrieved? [It's not the girl.]





	There's Nothing About Margo

Napoleon has switched sides. I can scarcely believe it, and yet he is indisputably allied with my captors. He even has the temerity to flirt with my despotic gaoler. Of course he does. And to think of how glad I’d been to see him! Of how I’d endured the hours of my confinement in hoping Napoleon would come, had been certain that he would finally rescue me, even if he was, as usual, unforgivably tardy. In my weaker moments I’d even just wished for Napoleon to be here with me, wished he could talk with me, distract me from the unpleasantnesses that are inevitable whenever one is in the tender care of enemies like ours. And now! Now I am effectively silenced, while he baits me, flaunts his freedom, gloats over my captivity. His betrayal turns my stomach.

 

Admittedly, that may be the concussion.

 

Still, it is undeniable that Napoleon has changed allegiance on me. When he arrived I didn’t imagine that he could have stopped by merely to bring me flowers, feed me grapes, and patronize me. Actually, his condescension I should probably have expected. In any case, I can’t be blamed for the confusion. If he’d only follow the script we’d be out the door by now, Napoleon having demanded my presence for some inane task, I having put-up more-or-less token resistance. 

 

That was how it had worked out that time in Paris, although who would want to pull helicopter stunts with a pilot who has to squint through a blinding headache is, frankly, beyond me. And he’d pulled the same trick in Algiers, where I’d actually been having a fairly pleasant time until Napoleon summoned me to play pimp for some poor café proprietress.

 

Actually, the more I think about it, the less certain I am which side is supposed to be mine. But that’s the problem, isn’t it? For Napoleon, the statement, ‘Illya is in hospital with concussion.’ has no set meaning and prescribes no particular course of action, not without first considering the question, ‘What do I, Napoleon Solo, need from Illya at this time?’ At the moment it appears that what he needs is me, kept securely out of the way of whatever designs he has on Margo or Mary or whomever. Honestly, it’s not as though I care about his evening’s social agenda. It’s not like he would stay with me otherwise; that stone-eyed gorgon of a nurse would never let him…would she?

 

A question that is quickly rendered academic, as he is gone, and I am alone, and I am not alone and… the hospital is gone.

 

And then Napoleon comes for me at, as is to be expected, the worst possible time.

 

And now we are back at the hospital. Someone’s dressed my hand, but, after thorough examination, they’ve declined to return me to my ward. It turns out that a full day of imprisonment, sedation, and forced immobility has much the same salutary effect as twenty-four hours of bed rest. Who could have guessed?

 

Poor Napoleon, however, will be confined for at least the next several days. I vow to come see him in the evening—I can’t not come when Napoleon needs me. And if that means he occasionally yanks me from my sickbed, so what? I know now that there are others who will do so with significantly less consideration.

 

But, in the end, Napoleon was there for me—even when it seemed it would kill him. I’ll be there for him whenever and wherever he should need me. And if what he needs most now is a bit of his own medicine, well, who would I be to interfere with his convalescence?


End file.
